


It's The Thing To Say

by LayALioness



Series: 12 Days of Bellarke! [10]
Category: The 100 (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fake/Pretend Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-11
Updated: 2015-12-11
Packaged: 2018-05-06 03:45:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5401733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LayALioness/pseuds/LayALioness
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“So, good news or bad news first?” she asks.</p><p>Bellamy doesn't look up. "Good."</p><p>“We won an all-inclusive, already paid for luxury week-long cruise.”</p><p>“Okay,” he says, slow. “What’s the bad news?”</p><p>Clarke winces a little, because she still hasn’t said it out loud. “We have to pretend we’re engaged.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's The Thing To Say

**Author's Note:**

> if you're a swinger, no judgment, that's just the way this fic turned out.
> 
> title from Mele Kalikimaka

Clarke doesn’t _really_ mean to lie on the radio show, but—it’s a free cruise, okay? And she knows Bellamy would’ve wanted in on that, and would have done the same. It just makes sense.

So when he shows up after work, kicking his fancy uncomfortable loafers across the room and sagging down onto the couch with the kind of groan that usually precedes a very long and intricate rant about some obscure Latin text she’s never heard of, Clarke cuts in first.

“So, good news or bad news first?” she asks, and he squints at her a little, so she has to bite back a grin. After-work Bellamy is one of her favorites, because he’s usually irritated and grumpy and sleepy all at once, but will immediately flop his head in her lap if she sits next to him. The more upset he gets the more he seeks affection.

“Bad,” he decides, and she frowns. She’d thought for sure he’d pick good, he _always_ picks good first, unlike her, who strategizes it so she gets the positive bits last. It’ll be harder to explain, bad side first. But then he seems to rethink it and says “No, good, sorry. I don’t know how you do it.”

This time she does grin. “We won an all-inclusive, already paid for luxury week-long cruise.”

Bellamy just sort of stares blankly at her for a moment, like he isn’t sure she’s real. “Okay,” he says, slow. “What’s the bad news?”

Clarke winces a little, because she still hasn’t said it out loud. She hasn’t even really thought about it to be honest, because it still feels too weird. “We have to pretend we’re engaged.”

She’s expecting more staring, or some sarcasm at least, but instead he just sighs and rubs his face a little, before leaning forward. “Did you want to tell me what happened, or just make me fill in the blanks?”

Clarke sinks down on the couch beside him, and, right on cue, he flops down with his head in her lap, looking up at her. “I’m kind of curious to see what you come up with,” she grins.

“Your mother called, suddenly worried you’re going to die alone, so to get her off your back you said we were engaged, and as congratulations, she gave us a cruise trip,” he rattles off instantly, like he’s considered it before, and Clarke’s eyes narrow, suspicious.

“That’s surprisingly realistic, but no. Mom’s learned not to ask about my love life—I’ll bring it up when I’m ready, and not a second before. Any other guesses?”

“You won a weird lottery ticket.”

“Close. It was a radio call-in contest.”

“That was my third guess,” Bellamy hums, and Clarke kicks her thigh up to dislodge him.

“Liar,” she accuses, and he makes a face. “Anyway, the contest was for couples only, and I figured _engaged_ sounded better than _dating_ , I guess. I don’t know. I was just thinking of the cruise trip.”

“Understandable,” Bellamy nods, cut off by his own yawn, and looking a little annoyed about it. “So, what’s the game plan? You wear one of the fancy rings I know you have hidden somewhere, we hold hands a lot, that kind of thing? Fake it till we make it?”

“Just like high school,” Clarke confirms, and they high five.

After all, it’s just for one week, right? How hard can it be?

Clarke does have an unnecessarily large amount of expensive jewelry that she took with her when she left home, but once she sifts through everything in her old Princess and the Nutcracker jewelry box, made out of painted over cardboard, she’s pretty sure, she realizes none of it is usable.

Bellamy finds her like that, still glaring down at the diamonds and tourmaline, and he stops to lean against her doorway. “What’s up?”

“All I have are rich people rings,” Clarke scoffs, still disgusted, but Bellamy just looks amused.

“Probably because you’re a rich person. What’s wrong with them?”

Clarke levels him with a steady look. “How exactly would you have afforded a ten thousand dollar engagement ring, Bellamy?”

Bellamy shrugs a little. “I didn’t think they’d bother quizzing us on our finances, but fine. Wait here for a sec.”

He disappears around the corner, into his room, leaving Clarke staring after him, confused. He’s probably going to bring out some costume ring from when Wells managed to guilt him into working on the school play, in tenth grade, or something.

But instead when he wanders up, reaching for her hand, he drops a pretty, white gold band into her palm. It’s thin, light metal, with a tiny pink gemstone, that might be rose quartz. Clarke doesn’t really know a lot about gemstones, but her dad was a gemologist, and she picked a few things up when she was a kid.

“Where’d you get this?” she breathes, and he’s looking smug, like he’s proud that after all these years, he can still surprise her. “It’s beautiful.”

“It was my mom’s,” he says, shrugging, like it’s no big deal—even though that isn’t possible. Bellamy’s mom died right before they left for college, and was the most important person in his life until then. Well, her and Octavia.

“Bellamy,” Clarke starts, but he cuts her off.

“I was gonna give it to Lincoln, when he told me he wanted to propose, but he had _his_ grandmom’s ring, and I knew O would like that one better.” He smiles a little, soft and encouraging. “Take it, seriously. You’re the only person I could trust with it, anyway.”

There’s a long stretch of silence where they both take in what he’s just said.

“Well!” he grins, waggling his eyebrows dramatically. “We should probably pack for our sunny Christmas break, fiancée.” And then he just walks out, whistling that stupid fucking Bing Crosby tune, about Christmas in Hawaii. He’s been singing it all week, since Clarke first told him about the cruise, which sets out tomorrow.

Clarke knows Bellamy’s mostly excited because it’s his first Christmas without Octavia—she and Lincoln are on some romantic getaway up in the mountains at a hardcore snow sport resort, which is exactly like them, to spend their vacation high on adrenaline and possibly with broken bones. O had offered to stay, to spend time with Bellamy, but he’d all but ordered her to leave town, which of course meant there was a whole blowup, with Octavia shouting _you can’t tell me what to do!_ while Bellamy yelled _I’m just trying to look out for you!_ It was like high school, all over again.

They patched things up, obviously, like they always do, and Octavia headed off with Lincoln, with _kayaks_ strapped to the top of their Jeep, which Clarke still doesn’t really get. What do they need kayaks for? Everything’s frozen.

But that also meant that Bellamy was planning on spending Christmas watching _Earth After People_ and eating the box of frozen thin mints Clarke found hiding in the back of their freezer a couple days ago. Clarke, meanwhile, was all set to fly home for the holidays, but then her mom called in a panic, because apparently snowstorms were expected all throughout the next week and a half, and she didn’t want Clarke to do anything in that kind of weather. Clarke’s read all the articles, and she knows the statistics of plane crashes, and she was so young when it happened that she doesn’t really remember much, so flying never bothered her. But Abby never quite got over it. She’d rather drive for forty-eight hours than take a thirty minute plane ride through the air.

That’s only part of the reason Clarke made that stupid phone call, though—the other part is the fact that neither she nor Bellamy have ever had anything less than a White Christmas. Snow slush in all their boots, turning their toes numb, their noses going pink and chapped in the winter air, little flurries stuck to their hair and eyelashes. And Clarke’s never really minded the wintery weather, but she _likes_ the sun, and the ocean, and those mixed drinks with the little umbrellas. Having all of those on Christmas? It’s basically the dream.

And she knows Bellamy agrees, knows he’ll be ten times happier feeling like he’s actually _doing_ something for the holidays, besides learning how the common housecat might one day evolve into a gargoyle, or how quickly kudzu grows. Bellamy likes being proactive, and he’s always been festive, to an extent. He might not haul out the ladders and Christmas lights, but he has a pair of reindeer antlers made out of felt and sewn to a headband, that he likes to wear all through December. And, as mentioned before, he’s got a Thing for Bing Crosby.

It doesn’t take them long to pack, and they get to use the matching luggage set her mom got them when they graduated. In fact, most of everything they own matches, like a million different salt and pepper shakers, that just _fit_ , side by side. They even have almost all the same books, so when they set up their (matching) bookshelves, they just lined their copies up together, as a sort of inside joke.

The cruise starts down in Florida, which means they have a quick three-hour flight first, before reaching the docks. Clarke’s never _really_ been afraid of flying, but when Bellamy slides his hand in hers during the shaky take-off, she still breathes a small sigh of relief. The tiny bottles of tequila they buy don’t hurt, either. They make little drinking games; take a sip every time a baby cries, or one of the passengers asks a flight attendant some stupid question, or somebody walking down the aisle jostles Bellamy’s shoulder without saying sorry. By the time the plane lands, Clarke is very aware that she is not sober, and it takes every part of her brain to make sure she doesn’t fall down.

“That was a terrible idea,” she tells him, and he shushes her, because judging by the amount of people glancing around, her inside voice is a little louder than it should be. “Oops.”

Bellamy takes her hand in his, for moral support. “We’ve got this,” he says, looking ready for battle. Drunk Bellamy likes to give rousing speeches and cry about the Trojan War a lot.

Clarke squeezes his hand, just once. “Yeah we do.”

The cab ride to the docks is roughly forty minutes, because Miami is actually _huge_ , so by the time they arrive, they’re mostly sober again. Which is fine; boats aren’t nearly as terrifying as airplanes, even though they probably should be. They don’t know what’s in that water, and anyway, boat accidents are way likelier than plane crashes.

Clarke’s seen pictures of cruise liners, obviously, online and on TV and on those little travel brochures that show up in the mail sometimes. But she’s never seen one in person, and so she’s not totally prepared for how _giant_ it is. It looks like its own private entity, which, she thinks, it kind of is.

“We’ve got this,” Bellamy repeats, and he hasn’t let go of her hand since the airport, so she gives him another squeeze. It’s surprisingly encouraging.

“Yeah,” she agrees. “It’s just one week, and we’ve got the hand holding down.”

Bellamy grins down at her. “It’s not like it’ll be _hard_. I can pretend to like you.”

Clarke huffs a laugh. “Asshole. I’m just marrying you for your good looks. You’re totally gonna be my trophy husband, while I make millions off my art.”

He snorts a little, tugging her closer as they approach the crowd that’s slowly but surely climbing the ramp onto the ship. “Sure, babe, that’s definitely what’s happening. You’re marrying me because of my pretty face, and I’m marrying you for your money.” He makes a show of checking her out, eyes lingering on her chest, and even though she _knows_ it’s fake, she still flushes, because her body is a traitor. “And your boobs.”

“As you should,” Clarke says, prim, handing their tickets over to the employee so he can check the barcodes against his tablet, before handing them back with a whole package of information about the cruise and what looks like courtesy bath towels, which is nice.

Their room is somewhere near the middle of the ship, with a nice window view of the ocean, and a small bathroom tucked off to one side. There’s only one bed, which makes sense, as it’s a couples’ cruise. And anyway, it’s not like they’ve never passed out together, either on a bed or the couch, watching TV while Bellamy cross stitches ironic song lyrics on throw pillows. Things like _BIG OL BOOTY BITCH MISSUS FROM TEXAS_ with a smiling kitten underneath.

“Well, they have a pool,” Clarke says, tossing her bag on the bed and frowning when it bounces back off again. Bellamy cackles from where he’s checking out their view. “I call dibs on the bathroom!” She grabs her swimsuit to change into, and the 3-in-1 bottle of sunscreen that was on sale at Walgreens, which she’ll probably use up within the next seven days.

Bellamy, of course, won’t need hardly _any_ , and he’ll be rubbing it in her face all week.

Clarke’s bikini is pale blue, with little black anchors all over, and stringy. It’s cute, and it makes her boobs look even better than they normally do, but it’s not like any of that really matters. She’ll be pretending to date Bellamy the whole time, and she’s not enough of a dick to use that as a hookup on some couple cruise. Besides, anyone who’d be willing to sleep with her while she’s supposedly engaged, she probably doesn’t want to sleep with.

But it still makes her feel good, knowing she looks hot, and she ties her hair up in a loose knot before walking back into the room.

Bellamy’s changed into his swim trunks, with a pair of plain sunglasses perched on his nose, and those Adidas sandals that were popular with the basketball team at their school, the ones people wore with _gym socks_. Clarke and Bellamy have been best friends for nearly twelve years, now, so she’s seen him without a shirt before. She sees him shirtless most days, since they live together, and he seems to have an aversion to covering up his chest. Not that Clarke blames him—it is a very nice chest, and deserves to be appreciated.

Clarke realizes she’s staring, belatedly, and catches herself, but it doesn’t really matter, since he’s still a little slack jawed over her. Clarke wears way more clothes than Bellamy, so he hasn’t built up as much of an immunization as she has, apparently. It’s a big confidence boost.

“So are we going swimming, or do you just want to ogle me some more?” Clarke smirks, snapping him out of his daze. At least he looks a little sheepish.

“Uh, sorry, you look—great. Lead the way, princess.”

The pool is on the top level—well, one of them is. There are _four_ total, which seems kind of silly, since they’re in the middle of the ocean, but. She’s not about to complain. She looked up the average cost of their tickets online, and it would have taken three months’ rent for them to afford this. Honestly, it was kind of a stretch taking the three extra days off of work, for Bellamy, since history professors make nearly nothing—but he’d had a few vacation days stored up, which helped. And Clarke basically makes her own schedule, since she just has to send in a certain number of panels to her comic writer each month, and she already has a few extras sitting on her desk at home, so. One week off won’t kill anyone.

“Oh, we can drink in the pool,” Clarke says, excited. There’s a little hut, where they can order, with a picture of a tequila sunrise on the sign. “I bet they have mimosas!”

“Do you think they have gin?”

“Bellamy Blake I have known you for twelve years,” she says, stern, tugging him along after her. “Don’t you dare act like you’re above mixed drinks. We’ve gotten drunk on lime-cherry wine coolers, before.”

Bellamy makes a face, which is fair. That was not one of their best nights. “Yeah, out of desperation,” he sighs, but he orders a sex on the beach at the bar, so she counts it a victory.

He plops his pink mini umbrella in with her green one, once their drinks arrive, and then they go to dangle their legs in the water. Well, Clarke goes to dangle her legs in the water. Bellamy hops in so the water comes up to his stomach, and leans against the blue tiled wall, like he’s propping it up, as part of the decoration.

He’s such a peacock. Clarke kicks him in the butt.

“What?” he growls, but she just grins at him, innocent. She can feel him glaring, even though his sunglasses are too dark for her to see.

He snakes a hand up to pinch the skin behind her knee, tickling her until she yelps, and spills some of her drink in the pool, so he laughs.

She’s still swatting his shoulder, when another couple sidles up to them, their lower bodies distorted underwater. It’s a man and a woman, both equally hot, both the kind of person Clarke might try to take home if they’d met in different circumstances.

“Well, aren’t you two adorable,” the woman smirks, and it’s honestly a toss-up, trying to decide if she’s being sarcastic. The man beside her grins a little more warmly.

“How long have you guys been dating?”

“Since high school,” Clarke says, just as Bellamy says “Actually, we just got engaged,” and snakes his arm up around her back—but with their different height levels, his hand is basically resting up against her ass, and she can tell he’s uncomfortable about it, but it’s not like she can move, so she just shrugs it off.

“Wow, since high school?” the woman asks, sounding a little shocked, and Clarke isn’t sure why that feels a little insulting, but it does. She really shouldn’t be getting defensive over a _fake_ relationship, but. This is just who she is, apparently.

“And you’re just now engaged?” the man laughs, clearly meaning to be pleasant, but Clarke can feel Bellamy bristle beside her.

Clarke hums a little, reaching over to graze her nails against his arm, the way she knows will calm him down. And then—because they might as well put on a show, right?—she rails her hand up into his hair, massaging his scalp a little until she feels him go boneless.

“Well, it’s just nice to see the spark hasn’t died out,” the woman says, and she seems sincere this time, so Clarke smiles, feeling Bellamy tighten his grip on her thigh.

“Yeah,” she agrees, glancing over at him, to find he’s already looking at her, like he’s searching for directions. Honestly, after two whole years in the theater club, she thought he’d be better at improv. “Honestly, it’s almost like we know each other so well, we’re like one half of the same person.”

“The old Greek myth,” Bellamy adds, because he’s still a pretentious intellectual at heart, no matter how chiseled his abs are. “Soul mates.”

 _It’s an act_ , Clarke reminds herself, because now he’s looking at her so warmly she’s worried it might burn through her sunscreen, and leave her a wasted, melted puddle on the ship’s deck.

“I’m Roma, by the way,” the woman says, like she’d been waiting for one of them to ask and then just got tired of it. “And this is my husband Finn.”

“I’m Clarke; he’s Bellamy. It’s nice to meet you.”

“You too,” Finn smiles. He reminds her a little of a politician. “So, listen—we haven’t really met any other couples we got on with yet, and they’re having some sort of nice dinner tonight, on the second level. You guys maybe want to meet up, and grab a bite to eat?”

“There’s going to be a band,” Roma adds, as extra incentive, but really all it does is make Clarke think of that scene from _Titanic_.

She shares a look with Bellamy, who raises his brows as if to say _why not?_ and then turns back to the couple. “Sure, that sounds cool. What time?”

“How does seven sound?”

Finn and Roma leave soon after they make dinner plans, Roma complaining about her toes turning into prunes in the water, and flashing them one last perfectly whitened smile before leaving.

“Well that was weird,” Clarke mumbles, once they’re gone, and Bellamy shrugs, beside her.

“Couples who do stuff like this are weird, in general,” he says. “I mean, obviously you and I don’t count, but. Other couples.”

“Real couples,” Clarke agrees, but Bellamy’s voice sounds a little off when he says “Yeah.”

She glances down at him, but he’s worrying his lip and staring out towards the ocean, so she nudges him with her knee. “You okay?”

Bellamy smirks a little dangerously. “I’m about to be.”

Clarke frowns. “What? What does that—” She doesn’t get to finish her question, before he’s dragged her off of the deck and into the water, completely. She pops back up, spluttering, blinking the water from her eyes, glaring over at where he’s drifting away with a grin.

“Bellamy Blake, I’m going to kill you.”

“You’ll have to catch me first,” he goads, and they spend the next twenty minutes going back and forth, so viciously that they inadvertently chase all the other couples out of the pool, until the lifeguard’s forced to step in and separate them, when Clarke’s got him in a headlock.

“Ma’am,” the guard, a nervous-looking teenager that looks way too young for his job, says to Clarke. “I’m gonna have to ask you to let go of him—you could seriously injure him.”

“That’s the point,” Clarke chirps, but she lets go all the same. She doesn’t think they’ll get kicked off the cruise ship or anything (where would they go, exactly?) but she doesn’t feel like going to cruise ship jail, either.

“I totally just kicked your ass,” she says, poking Bellamy in the chest as her hair makes little damp pock marks in the carpet of their room. He shrugs her off and rolls his eyes, shaking his head like a wet dog.

“I let you win,” he declares smugly, and she hits him in the face with her towel.

“You _did not_!”

Bellamy just glares at her, and when she goes to hit him with it again, he catches her towel midair. “Don’t start what you can’t finish, princess,” he warns, trying to sound dangerous, but the effect is lost. Clarke _knows_ him. She remembers when he got rosin burn on his dick at orchestra camp, because of some bullshit dare. She remembers when he thought he might have chlamydia, and made Clarke google the symptoms and read them to him over the phone. She remembers when he tried to rescue a stray cat out of the tree, but fell down and broke his tailbone, instead. He can’t even begin to intimidate her.

“Bring it, Blake.”

Bellamy uses the leverage from her towel to yank Clarke in, close enough for him to hoist her up and _toss_ her on the bed, like she weighs nothing. She bounces a few times, head gone dizzy, and then suddenly he’s on her, pinning her down mercilessly, pinching her down both sides until she’s thrashing.

And then, just as suddenly, he stops, frozen, staring down at her with wide eyes. For her part, Clarke’s still gasping in deep, heaving breaths, trying to slow her heartrate, tucked underneath him and now very cold, as the cool air of the AC hits her still-wet skin. Bellamy licks his lips, just inches from hers, and Clarke tracks the movement. She also tracks when he glances down—to her mouth, her neck, her chest, and snapping back up again to her eyes, before he wrenches himself off the bed, completely.

“I’ll take the first shower,” he says, avoiding her eye, as he grabs his towel up from where he’d dropped it, and slips inside the wood-paneled door.

_What the fuck was that?_

Clarke sits up in a daze, and immediately, her bikini top is in her lap. The strings had come undone in the impromptu wrestling match—Bellamy must have noticed, and then just freaked out, even though she’s not sure _why_. He’s seen her in risqué positions before—he’d walked in on her hooking up with Lexa, that first time, and she’d been completely naked, then.

It must have been because she was under him this time, and it made him uncomfortable. She briefly thought about apologizing, but for what? _Sorry my eight dollar bathing suit from Target is so shitty_? It was probably best to just not mention it. Bellamy, historically speaking, is sort of an idiot when it comes to women. She can’t even remember the last time he got laid, not since _college_ maybe, which.

She’d be lying if she said it wasn’t a relief, not having to hear him going at it with some strange girl every night, or even a girl she might know. Clarke hasn’t brought anyone home lately either, and she doesn’t like to think about the reason.

Eventually, Bellamy shows his face again, still toweling his hair dry and wearing his swim trunks, because he’d forgotten to grab a spare change of clothes. Clarke snatches up her own, before ducking into the bathroom, for her turn. She uses the little mini shampoo and conditioner, because she actually likes the travel hair products, and also they smell like lavender, which is her favorite. She lets the water run cold before stepping out and sliding her clothes on. Most of what she’d packed where bathing suits and the like, but she’d brought a few sundresses, just in case, and the one she’s wearing now has a pattern of little sunflowers, with black buttons running down the front.

Bellamy’s dressed in a pair of jeans and a dress shirt, flipping through one of the ship maps that came with the information packet, and Clarke picks up the little brochure. “How long do we have before we have to meet them for dinner?”

He checks his watch, and then frowns, trying to do the time conversion in his head, because he forgot to reset it. “Maybe an hour,” he shrugs.

Clarke nods, still skimming the little blurbs, about the ship’s history, and current message. “ _We try to provide an environment for open-minded individuals who think alike and are ready to have a great time, swinging through life!_ ” she recites. “Open-minded individuals—do you think that’s about gay marriage? That’d be awesome.”

Bellamy grins over at her, and she nearly sags with relief—she’d been worried things would be weird, after the bikini incident. She probably shouldn’t have; she and Bellamy have been through a lot of awkward chapters in their friendship, and they’ve always come out alright. No matter what happens, she’s always been able to count on him, to be her best friend. And that, more than anything—more than the apartment, more than having a roommate who doesn’t hot the TV, or label all the Tupperware in the fridge by date and time it was put in there, or leave their dirty laundry in little piles all around the apartment—that Clarke isn’t willing to give up. It’s not worth the risk.

She flops beside him on the bed, nuzzling towards him until her head is pillowed on his shoulder the way she likes, and he’s carding a hand through her hair absently as he reads. The motion is soothing, and so is the sound of the air conditioner, and she imagines she can hear the water outside, lapping against the metal sides of the ship.

Clarke doesn’t know she’s dozed off, until Bellamy gently shakes her awake, fifteen minutes before seven.

“We have to head out now.” He worries his lip a little. “Unless you want to stay?”

Clarke frowns. “We can’t just stand them up, Bellamy. I’ll be fine.”

“Right,” he rolls his eyes, but helps her up anyway, and laces their fingers together as they take off down the hall.

Finn and Roma are waiting for them at the restaurant bar, easy enough to notice, and they all get a table near the back of the dining room. There is a band, still setting up in the stage space up front, and Clarke watches, a little impatiently. She’s always been a sucker for live music.

She nearly jumps when she feels Bellamy slid his hand over her thigh, just a few inches up from her knee, squeezing a little, just to let her know that he’s there. But when she glances up, he’s looking straight at Finn, who’s very clearly checking her out over his menu. Roma either doesn’t seem to notice, or she doesn’t care, too engrossed in whatever she’s discussing with Bellamy.

“So,” Finn starts, and their side conversation pauses. “Twelve years, and you’re only now engaged? If you don’t mind me asking, why the long wait?”

 _We do mind you asking, actually_ , is on the tip of Clarke’s tongue, but Bellamy gives her leg another soft squeeze, and she turns to him.

“It’s my fault, actually,” he grins a little. “I was—not great, when we were younger—”

“You were the best,” Clarke argues, because yeah, okay, he was a dick when they first met, but only _she_ gets to say that. _He_ certainly doesn’t get to, and these strangers should know him for who he is now—this amazing, soft-hearted _nerd,_ who cross stitches pillows and designs educational board games in his spare time, who makes her pancakes in the morning, even when he doesn’t have time to, who’s paying for his sister’s wedding with the nest egg he was saving up for a house. Not the asshole teenager who liked to fuck girls in the handicapped stall in the bathroom—besides, everyone’s an asshole in high school. _She_ was definitely an asshole in high school.

“Clarke,” Bellamy says, looking fond, but she reaches down for his hand, and holds it.

“The _best_.”

He rolls his eyes a little, but he can’t fool her; his ears are going red. “Anyway, I wasn’t ready for anything serious, and Clarke was my best friend, and I just—wanted to wait until I deserved her, I guess.” But he’s looking at her as he says it, and she feels her stomach fill up with butterflies, the way it used to when they were sixteen, and he’d call her _princess_ , back when she still thought it might mean something more.

“And now you deserve her?” Finn asks, teasing, but Bellamy doesn’t look away from her eyes.

“Yeah,” he says, soft. “Or, I’m trying to, at least.”

 _You do_ , Clarke wants to say, and then she realizes that they’re supposed to be dating, so she can. “You do.” She clears her throat a little, since it’s gone hoarse, and looks him in the eye, hoping he knows that she’s not pretending, not with this.

She almost wants to drag him off, and interrogate him. Ask what the _fuck_ he’s playing at, if he’s playing at all. Ask what it is he means, when he says he deserves her _now_. Ask him how long it is he’s been thinking this.

But as it turns out, Roma beats her to that last one. “So when did you first fall in love with her?” Clarke’s beginning to get the feeling that Roma’s a romantic, the kind of person who packs three Nicholas Sparks movie for every trip they take.

She’s expecting Bellamy to hedge around, or turn it into a joke, or something. He’s never this serious, for this long, so something’s got to give. He’ll say _when I first saw her shirtless_ , or something just as ridiculous, but he’ll somehow make it sound fond.

But instead, he doesn’t miss a beat, and says “Eleventh grade. I was helping out with the school play, and practice ran later than usual, but I was supposed to go pick up my little sister, and I was running _so_ late. I was worried she’d tried to hitch a ride or something, but when I walked outside, she and Clarke were playing some weird clapping game, waiting for me. Clarke had gone and picked her up, and then hung out with her, so she wouldn’t be alone.” He glances over at her, quick and then away, back to Finn with a lopsided smile. “I pretty much knew right then, you know? That she was it for me.”

Clarke just stares—she know it probably seems weird, and she should give him a sweet smile, look like a woman in love, maybe lean over to kiss his cheek or something, but—she can’t help it. She _remembers_ that day. The weird clapping game, where they had to name different animals or people or something, and they couldn’t repeat any words. It was a headache, honestly, but Octavia had been determined to teach her. She hadn’t even thought about picking her up, really—she just knew Bellamy was busy and O needed a ride, and he was her best friend.

It seems so stupid now, that _that’s_ the moment that he chose, to fall in love with her. If he’s telling the truth.

The appetizers come out a few minutes later—some fancy shrimp platter Finn and Roma ordered, and the jalapeno poppers for her and Bellamy, with a whole bucket of ranch, the way she likes.

“So, we should probably talk logistics,” Finn starts, and Roma nods beside him, like they’re all on the same page.

“What logistics?” Bellamy asks, and the couple shares a private smile.

“Like—who goes to whose room,” Roma explains. “And how we should all pair up.”

“We discussed it earlier,” Finn adds, “And to be honest, we could both go either way. So it’s up to you two.”

“I’m sorry,” Clarke frowns, utterly confused. “But what—” She’s cut off by Bellamy squeezing her hand so tightly it hurts, and she turns to yell at him.

But instead, he leans over to whisper in her ear “ _Swinging through life_ ,” pulling back with wide eyes.

It takes her a minute to get it, but when she glances back to them—Finn and Roma eyeing her _and_ Bellamy, almost hungrily, it clicks.

“Oh,” she says, soft and a little too shocked for more words.

“Clearly, there’s been a misunderstanding,” Bellamy starts, as diplomatic as he can. “We didn’t actually know that, uh—we don’t really…” He trails off, once it’s clear that the other pair understand. They sit back in their seats a little, disappointed, but they’re ultimately gracious about it.

“We can still have dinner,” Roma shrugs, practical. “We already ordered.”

They stay through the main course, and it’s only mostly awkward, now that everything’s out in the open. Clarke isn’t really sure which of them feels the most foolish—mostly, she’s just kind of bemused.

After everything else that’s come to light today, the fact that she managed to win tickets to a _swingers’_ romantic cruise ship isn’t really that impressive.

Finally, they all agree to skip the dessert menu, pay the bill, and go their separate ways. Bellamy and Clarke wait until they’re at their own door, struggling to fit the key card in through the laughter, because—honestly, of _all_ the absurd things…

“I can’t believe you got us stuck on a boat filled with swingers,” Bellamy teases, once they’re inside, and Clarke flops back onto the bed in a heap of giggles. “They’re all going to try to sleep with us, you know. We’re hot.” He falls down beside her, staring up at the ceiling, and Clarke studies his face in the dim light of the lamp, with its shade made of seashells, casting strange hybrid shadows along the walls.

“Did you mean it?” she asks, voice a little strained, because—she has to know either way, but _god_ , she hopes he meant it.

“Yeah,” Bellamy sighs, rolling over to face her. “Did you?”

“Yes,” she nods, jagged, desperate. “I meant it, I mean it, Bellamy you’re—”

She doesn’t get to finish, because now he’s snaked his hand up the side of her neck, twisting into her hair, to bring her mouth up to his. He tastes like the fish he’s just eaten, but spicy too, like the peppers, and he _feels_ every bit like she imagined he would.

He feels like he fits her, like they’re a match set.

It’s not rushed, when he undoes the buttons of her dress and slides it from her shoulders, and she pulls down the zipper of his pants and pulls them down and off of his legs. It’s slow, and languid, eyes running over the bodies they already know by heart, but never like _this_. And _this_ —this is so much better.

“Merry Christmas, Bell,” she says into his shoulder, muzzily, once they’re finished. He’s just gone down on her twice, and she managed to return the favor, before he pulled her up to sink down on him.

They may not be rushing, but they’re not exactly going slow, either. They have a lot of time to make up for.

Bellamy huffs a laugh against the skin of her back, before pressing a kiss there. “I can’t believe,” he shakes his head. “ _Swingers_.”

Clarke rolls over to grin at him, sleepy. She’s having trouble, just trying to blink. But it’s okay; they’re on vacation. They can sleep in a few extra hours. They can sleep in all day. “How are we gonna avoid them?”

He smirks, eyes gleaming a little in the yellow light, as he traces the mark he left on her collar bone. “I can think of a few ways.” He swings his arm around her, pulling her in, even though they’re both overheated and sticky. “They probably won’t look for us in here,” he muses. “So, we just won’t leave this room for six days.”

“Sounds logical,” Clarke agrees, settling in. “We’ve got this.”

“Yeah,” Bellamy hums, pressing a kiss to her sweaty hair. “We really do.”


End file.
